


First Kiss

by Michelle Christian (movies_michelle)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movies_michelle/pseuds/Michelle%20Christian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Written for misspamela for her prompt, "John and Sherlock, first kiss"

Sherlock Holmes was a force of nature, a typhoon: people either learned to tie down the things they didn't want broken and get out of the way, learned how to get swept up in it, or dealt with being flattened to the ground. John had learned from the beginning to ride the storm waves and hang on for the ride. He assumed that was how they had managed to have sex. Twice. Before they had even kissed.

Actually, John didn't know if he would count the first time as sex. He wasn't sure Sherlock did, either: he'd called it "adrenaline release."

They'd been chasing a suspect over what felt like half of London, until they'd cornered him, at which point the guy pulled a knife. Sherlock had managed to distract him by talking about his mother's penchant for chocolate and the postman, and John had jumped him and wrestled the knife from him, just as Lestrade and the rest of the police had shown up.

When they got back to the flat, John knew he was still wired from the fight, and not likely to sleep any time soon. He hadn't realized how restless he'd been, though, until Sherlock made a "Hmph" sound, and he found himself pushed back against the wall.

"Build up of adrenaline. Best to release it as quickly as possible," he said. The next thing John had known, his pants were around his knees, Sherlock's hand was around his cock, and he was coming like a firehose all over Sherlock's hand and wrist.

Before John could do more than blink at him, Sherlock pulled away, looked at his hand, then smugly at John. "That should do it," he said (breathlessly, John realized later when he thought about it, and he couldn't stop thinking about it later). Then he licked his fingers, as if testing something, and walked away, leaving John panting and confused.

John would have tried to have avoid him for a few days, but since Sherlock suddenly got a case that meant he had to go to Scotland, it proved unnecessary. It, unfortunately, did not stop John's brain from going over it again and again, trying to put it into context that made sense for Sherlock as well as himself. Sherlock, he could almost believe what he said was what he meant: it was an adrenaline release and nothing more.

What help it had been for Sherlock's own build-up of adrenaline, John had no idea.

The next time was different. No life-or-death situation, unless you counted John wanting to kill Sherlock. There was a case Lestrade had called him in on, and Sherlock was frustrated, which meant he was pacing, cursing, muttering, and occasionally shooting guns and just generally annoying the crap out of John.

"Look," John said, trying to keep his voice even as he looked up from his laptop to watch Sherlock muttering, perched for the moment on the arm of the sofa, hands tight in his hair as he spoke to himself and tried to pry out the answer he knew was in there. "Maybe you should try doing something else for a while. Think about something else, and the answer will come. Works for me sometimes."

Sherlock looked up at him, and John was sure he was about to deliver some sharp, pithy comment about how something that would work in John's tiny little brain would not work in Sherlock Holmes's planet-sized cranium. But then there was some glint, some spark in his eye, and he just said, "Brilliant idea, John," strangely without sarcasm.

This time, John wasn't sure what was happening until his pants were down near his ankles and Sherlock was on his knees, hovering over his crotch.

"What--?" John started, then was interrupted.

"Shut up, you'll put me off," Sherlock said, and pushed his fingers into John's mouth before taking John's cock into his own.

And maybe John should have bitten those fingers. He really should have pushed Sherlock away and demanded to know what he was doing. But it had been so fucking long since anyone, _anyone_ had sucked him off, all he could do was lean back and moan.

It was almost over quicker than it would be to tell of it, embarrassingly fast, but this was Sherlock Holmes on his _knees_ giving him a blowjob, and, well, that was it.

Later, he figured he could be grateful that it wasn't until _after_ he was left spent and panting and Sherlock had sat back on his heels, licking his lips as if testing the flavor and viscosity of John's sperm for future research that he leapt up with the light of discovery in his eyes, snapped his fingers (which came more as a "shoosh" sound, since his fingers were still wet from John's mouth), and said, "The parakeet!" in triumph and whisked out of the room and the flat.

John had just enough energy to drop his head back on the chair with a "thump".

This time John did avoid him for the better part of two days while he thought. And thought some more. Sherlock, for once, let him be, and John couldn't be anything but grateful.

He found himself thinking of the fact that, years ago, he and his mates in med school had gone to see the movie _Twister_, and they'd all walked out agreeing on two things: cows flying through the air were funny; and Americans were complete nutters, chasing after storms which could rip them apart.

And here was the thing that John was actually honest enough to admit to himself: Sherlock may be a force of nature, but John was no innocent bystander. From the beginning, he'd never been one to wait until the storm had passed or even to just limply fly along and hope to survive. John had always chased after Sherlock and run _with_ him.

John was still enough of a military man to find having clarity and a plan in place soothing, so he relaxed a lot more after that realization. And when the postman dropped off his mail and asked after his boyfriend, John didn't protest, just smiled and said he was fine.

When he went into the sitting room that evening to find Sherlock sitting in the chair (all legs pulled up as if he would leap into action any moment) yelling at the telly (apparently they had all the wrong opinions about whether or not someone was lying about cheating on his girlfriend) and typing madly into his laptop, John took a deep breath, walked over to Sherlock, and pulled his laptop out of his hands.

"If we're doing this," John said, tilting Sherlock's head up toward him at the same time, "we're doing this right." Then he bent over and kissed him.

Sherlock seemed surprised for a moment--and how John loved that moment--but quickly joined the program, kissing back, all lips and tongue and hands in John's hair. John opened his eyes just slightly to see that Sherlock's eyes were wide open and staring at him, not in shock, but in calculation, as if searching and recording, deciding what data was important to keep and what wasn't worth keeping. It possibly should have disturbed John, but it didn't.

After several seconds, Sherlock pulled back just enough to look John in the eye. "We're doing this, are we?" Sherlock asked, sounding amused, his lips just barely curving up.

"Absolutely," John said, and went in for the second kiss, starting a storm of his own.


End file.
